


We're a team (love and our family business)

by waterbird13



Series: Writing our own Vows [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blowjobs, Case Fic, M/M, Mirror Sex, Rimming, Switching, but also a lot of porn, married Wincest, mentions of Sam's eating disorder, non-graphic injury, sex in public, sex on the side of the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean head to Minnesota for a case, and along the way have a lot of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're a team (love and our family business)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone--  
> Sorry this took a while, but (finally), here it is. Massive apologies for the title. There was once a theme to them, which I now poorly maintain in addition to being generally terrible at titles.  
> Warnings/enticements: explicit gay, incestuous sex (duh), switching, rimming, blow jobs, semi-public sex (on the side of the road), sex in front of a mirror, non-graphic relatively minor hunting injuries, mentions of Sam's eating disorders, married Wincest. That is all, I think.

            “I can’t believe you picked a hunt because of its proximity to a damn _diner_ ,” Sam says in the passenger’s seat, absently fiddling with the fingers of Dean’s right hand.

            “Shut up,” Dean grouses. “Charlie and Dorothy can take care of the hoodoo priestess, Krissy and the kids can have the ruguru in New England, and you and I take the wendigo. It’s a good split.”      

            “Sure,” Sam agrees. “And it has nothing to do with Ellie’s burgers?”

            Dean smiles. “Her pie, too, Sammy. C’mon, it’ll be a piece of cake. We get to Minnesota, ice the thing, then head over to Ellie’s for lunch. I’m sure she’ll make you a salad if you give her the puppy dog eyes.”

            Despite himself, Sam smiles back at Dean. “You’re a strange man, Dean Winchester,” Sam says.

            Dean squeezes Sam’s hand. “Yeah, well, you married me. So you have to put up with it.”

            Sam huffs his agreement and then yawns, using his free hand to cover his face. Dean looks over at him for a second, really looks at him, and sees the bags under his eyes. Sam had been up late the last few nights, getting most of the research and organizing done for everyone’s hunts.

            “Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says fondly. “I’ll wake you in a bit, okay?”

            Sam grunts and, rather than leaning against the window like Dean expected, contorts himself so he’s lying with his head on Dean’s thigh.

            Dean’s smile grows bigger. “Comfortable there, Sammy?”

            “Shaddup,” Sam murmurs. Dean keeps driving with his left hand on the wheel and runs the fingers of his right hand through Sam’s hair, gently stroking. Sam falls asleep like that quickly, and Dean slows down, mindful of bumps and potholes, though truth be told Dean doubts anything would wake Sam up.

            It’s almost dinner time when Dean pulls the car over to wake Sam. “Sammy,” he croons, running his fingers under Sam’s shirt and up his side. “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty, time to get up.”

            Sam groans against Dean’s thigh. “Don’t wanna,” he says.

            Dean chuckles. “Yeah, well, I’m hungry. And so are you. Need you up so we can grab dinner in the next town.”

            “Mmm,” Sam moans as he moves his hand to Dean’s crotch, flicking open his button and pulling down his fly. “I’m hungry for something else.”

            “That is a _terrible_ line,” Dean says, voice getting a little breathy when Sam gets his fingers around his cock.

            Sam pulls Dean out and starts to stroke him slowly. “Mhm, privilege of being married. You’re pretty much a sure thing, no need to pull out my best lines.”

            Dean would argue, would ask just who exactly Sam does pull his best lines out for, but at that moment, Sam wraps his lips around the head of Dean’s cock, and Dean’s head falls back, breath rushing out of him.

            Sam takes Dean deeper, and the angle isn’t great, but Sam makes it work for a few minutes.

            When he pulls back, Dean whimpers, and he would be embarrassed by the sound if he had enough blood left in his brain to think it through. As it is, all he can do is make grabby hand motions, desperate for Sam to come back.

            Sam chuckles. “Gimme half a second here,” he says. Dean picks his head up to watch Sam sit up and tug at his own jeans, working them down his thighs along with his underwear, allowing his impressively hard cock to spring free.

            Dean’s mouth waters at the sight, wants to taste Sam, swallow him down. Sam sees his line of sight and smiles. “Next time,” he promises.

            Dean whines in complaint but then watches in confusion as Sam opens the passenger’s door. “Sammy, what—“ he asks, but his question is answered when Sam leaves the car and gets on his knees, grinning.

            Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, moves across the bench and spreads his legs wide, giving Sam full and unobstructed access to his cock. Sam doesn’t waste time, takes Dean’s cock back into his mouth, not stopping until the head bumps the soft lining of Sam’s throat. Dean closes his eyes in bliss and threads the fingers of his left hand into Sam’s hair.

            Sam moans softly as Dean tugs a little harder than he intended. “Fuck,” Dean murmurs, and does it again. Sam moans again, a little louder this time, the vibrations driving Dean wild. Sam has always had a sensitive scalp, likes his hair played with more than a massage most days, and Dean doesn’t take advantage of that fact nearly often enough, in his opinion.

            Dean opens his eyes to look at Sam, who has his eyes closed, lips spit-slick and stretched wide around Dean’s cock, and one hand on his own cock, fingers slick with pre-come.

            “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean whimpers as he tugs gently at Sam’s hair once more. “God, look at you,” he rasps. “Kneeling on the side of the road, pants pulled down, anyone driving by could see you, you know.”

            Sam hums his agreement but doesn’t stop working Dean over, pulling back to tease the head of Dean’s cock once more.

            “Exhibitionist,” Dean says fondly, scratching his nails along Sam’s scalp. “Bet you’d love if they came, want them to stay and watch, wouldn’t you, Sammy?”

            Sam just sets in with more determination, leaving Dean incapable of saying any more, breath stolen by louder and louder pants, hips bucking gently into Sam’s mouth as he gets close.

            Sam is getting close too, his coordination decreasing and the blowjob getting messier. Dean looks at him, eyes rapt on Sam’s face, spit sliding down his chin. Dean feels the slightest scrape of Sam’s teeth along his cock and groans, the slight pain sending his careening over the edge, whimpering Sam’s name as he comes down Sam’s throat.

            When Dean opens his eyes once more, Sam is still on his knees, roughly jerking his cock, head thrown back and eyes closed, spit and a bit of come dripping down his chin. “Fuck, Sammy, baby, god, you should see yourself,” Dean rasps. “Look fucking perfect, fuck, wanna see you come like this, Sammy, do that for me?”

            Dean’s hand is still in Sam’s hair, and he tightens his slack fingers, tugging once more and Sam comes all over the ground and his own hand, mouth falling open in a breathless yell.

            Dean moves his hands to cradle Sam’s head, tilting his head so he can look at his lust-wrecked, debauched husband. “So fucking beautiful,” he says, and Sam smiles tiredly.

            They stay like that for a moment before Dean leans down for a deep kiss, tasting himself on Sam’s tongue.

            He pulls back and Sam chuckles. “Messed up your face,” he explains.

            Dean slides back towards the driver’s seat, making room for Sam to get back in the car, which he does once he pulls his pants back up. “Yeah, well, you should see your own. Napkins in the glove box—clean yourself up and hand me a few.”

            They clean up and Dean tucks himself away. They look each other over and, after Dean does his best to smooth Sam’s hair out, they deem each other presentable and get back on the road.

            “You, uh, really have a thing for other people watching?” Dean asks.

            Sam chuckles. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause you didn’t get off on doing it on the side of the road just as hard as I did.”

            “Fair enough,” Dean says, lips quirked into a half-smile. “But, uh. What I said. You don’t—do you really want people to watch?”

            Dean can practically _hear_ Sam’s eye-roll. “No, Dean. Although the thought of getting caught blowing my husband is a lot hotter than the thought of getting caught blowing my brother.”

            Dean winces, remembers all those nights of _gotta stay quiet, Sammy_ and _Dean, shut up, Dad’ll hear,_ and the days of carefully avoiding any inappropriate touches, so scared for anyone to find out what they were doing.

            Dean rallies and grins. “You kinky exhibitionist,” he teases.

            Sam elbows him in the side, but he laughs a bit. “Takes one to know one,” he says, and they let the subject drop as Dean rolls slowly through the small town, stopping at what appears to be the only restaurant.

            It’s a little mom and pop Italian place, and Sam and Dean are put at a table near the back. They order sodas and breadsticks, and Dean orders a big plate of pasta with meatballs guaranteed to be the size of            his fist, and Sam orders a vegetable pasta dish.

            Sam munches on a breadstick while they wait for their pasta. “Love Italian,” he says.

            “Oh, yeah?” Dean asks. “Didn’t know that.”

            Sam shrugs. “There’s this little Italian place near Stanford. Thursdays, you’d get all you can eat pasta for ten bucks. We’d all go over after class and grab one of the big tables, stay for hours. Definitely got our money’s worth.”

            “Even you?” Dean can’t help but ask.

            Sam shrugs again. “Some weeks. Others, no, not really.” Just when Dean is about to say something about that, Sam asks, “does it bother you? When I talk about then?”

            “As opposed to forgetting it existed?” Dean asks. “Sammy, you went to school, had friends, a girlfriend, did stuff. It’s not some big secret we’re never gonna talk about.”

            Sam smiles and Dean knows he said right. Sometimes the last thing he wants to hear about is the years Sam spent without him, but they happened and all he can do is remind himself that, at the end of it all, Sam chose him.

            Their food arrives and they eat in near silence, bumping knees underneath the small table and smiling at each other between bites. Finally, they finish and call for the check. Sam pays—cash, like always, unwilling to cheat small businesses out of a few bucks—and they get back on the road.

            Dean insists on driving and gets them to the Minnesota town in less than three hours. Sam plays with the fingers of Dean’s right hand the entire way, and Dean can’t help the constant effusion of warmth the simple gesture sends through him.

            Finally, they make it to town and Dean pulls into the first motel. The parking lot is all but empty, the neon vacancy sign flickering, and Dean pulls into the spot closest to the office.

            He and Sam walk into the office to meet a bored, pretty girl behind the desk. “Looking for a room?” she asks, eyeing Dean as he approaches the desk.

            Sam’s hand tightens around Dean’s and Dean smiles. “Yeah, my husband and I need a place for a few days,” he says, squeezing Sam’s hand back as the girl’s eyes catch on Sam.

            She seems content to just look at the both of them and not push for more as she gets them a key, eyes slowly travelling up and down the expanse of Sam’s body. Dean squeezes Sam’s hand again and fights the urge to kiss him possessively. Finally, Sam has the key and they leave, grabbing their bags before unlocking door number five.

            Dean does his usually cursory look-around, but his eyes stop on the massive fixture dominating one wall. “The fuck?” he asks.

            Sam looks over and shakes his head at the massive mirror facing the foot of the bed. “You get the kinky motel room on purpose, or did it just work out that way?”

            Dean grins. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right, Sammy?” he says as he digs through his bag, pulling out the lube and setting it on the nightstand, mind already racing with half-formed plans for the unexpected but most definitely welcome mirror.

            Sam throws his bag on one of the chairs and leans over to fish something out of it. Dean wraps his arms around Sam from behind. “What’s ‘a matter, Sammy?” he asks against Sam’s neck. “Don’t you wanna try out the kinky sex mirror with me?”

            “Sure, Dean,” Sam says quietly.

            “Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Dean grumbles.

            Sam chuckles a bit. “Sorry, Dean,” he says. “Just…that girl. Staring at you like that. Takes me a minute to switch from pissed off to turned on.”

            Dean rubs his nose against Sam’s neck. “Don’t have to be jealous, baby,” he says. “Only want you. ‘Sides, she was looking at both of us.”

            “No she wasn’t,” Sam protests.

            “Yes, she was,” Dean insists. “And, you know, all I wanted to do was fuck you right against that wall, show her you’re mine, but, fuck, can’t blame her for looking. Got myself such a fucking gorgeous husband.”

            Sam ducks his head and Dean has to stop himself from chuckling at the burst of shyness. “Mmm,” he says, trailing the tip of his nose to press at the sensitive patch behind Sam’s ear, “so, what d’you say to kinky mirror sex?”

            Sam turns his head and Dean gets the hint, kissing Sam as best as they’re able to at that angle. Dean runs his hands down Sam’s sides, playing with the hem of his t-shirt for a moment before breaking the kiss and pulling it up. Sam helps get it off, then turn so he’s facing Dean, insistently tugging at Dean’s shirt before immediately setting to work on his belt, then his jeans. Dean kicks off his boots and then his jeans and underwear, leaving him bare to Sam’s wandering hands.

            Dean lets Sam do as he wishes for a moment before pulling at Sam’s belt, wrestling his jeans and underwear down. As soon as Sam is also naked, he pulls Sam into a rough, bruising kiss, fingers digging into the meat of Sam’s shoulders. Sam returns the kiss, gripping Dean’s hip with one hand and palming his ass with the other.

            Dean breaks the kiss somewhat reluctantly, but he has a plan and he’s not going to allow it to be derailed. “On the bed for me, baby,” he says.

            Sam follows the directions, lies back onto the pillows and Dean chuckles. “Not like that,” he says. “Hands and knees, facing the mirror.”

            Sam does, a blush staining his cheeks and Dean bites back his grin, knowing Sam doesn’t appreciate the pleasure Dean takes in making him blush. “Beautiful,” he says instead. “Spread your knees a bit more, Sammy,” he says. Sam does, but at the same time he lowers his face and chest towards the bed. “Hey,” Dean admonishes gently. “Nuh-uh. No point to the mirror if you do that. Want you to watch yourself, watch that pretty face as I lick you open. Do that for me, Sammy?”

            Sam repositions himself, face even redder now. “There you go,” Dean murmurs. He slides onto the bed behind Sam, taking a moment to palm his firm ass, spreading his cheeks so he can look and admire the tight hole. “Fucking beautiful,” Dean mutters, more to himself than to Sam, but nevertheless Sam reacts, head ducking for a moment before he looks back into the mirror.

            “You know,” Dean says conversationally. “Watching you come apart for me, get so turned on you’re desperate, panting and squirming and pleading, that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, I think. Shame you’ve never seen it before. So I want you to watch it tonight.”

            Dean reaches around Sam to stroke once, twice, at his cock, pleased to note that, despite his sudden bout of shyness, Sam is still hard and wanting for Dean.

            Dean withdraws his hand and, without further hesitation, spreads Sam as wide as possible and brings his mouth to Sam’s hole, planting a few soft, teasing kisses before extending his tongue. Sam groans when he feels Dean’s tongue on him, and Dean is suddenly jealous that Sam gets to see his face but Dean does not. He decides imagination will have to do and sets to work, licking at the rim for a few minutes before pushing his tongue inside, chasing the soft, silken heat he knows he will find there.

            Sam groans louder. “Dean,” he moans. “Dean, more, god, please.”

            Dean pulls back. “You watching yourself in that mirror?” he asks.

            Sam cants his hips back, trying to get more from Dean and whimpering when he gets nothing but Dean’s hands on his ass holding him steady. “Y-yes,” he promises. “Yes, I’m watching, promise, Dean, please—“

            “Shhh,” Dean soothes, kissing at Sam’s lower back. “Gonna give you everything you want tonight, Sammy, I promise. Just keep watching that pretty face. Now, want my tongue again?”

            “Fuck, Dean, yes,” Sam moans, and Dean smiles. Sam, usually much more capable of keeping himself controlled and quiet than Dean ever has been, is moaning loud enough to make Dean briefly wonder about the thickness of motel walls. The thought leaves quickly as he pushes his tongue back inside Sam’s tight hole, distracted entirely by making Sam whimper and moan even louder.

            “Dean, Dean, Dean, _Dean,”_ Sam practically wails, and Dean continues to torment Sam and closes his eyes, imagines the view Sam must be getting of himself at that exact moment, eyes half-lidded, skin sweat-sheened, rocking back desperately onto the tongue deep in his ass.

            Dean brings his hand to Sam’s cock once more, getting his fingers slick with the pre-come leaking from the head of his cock before taking Sam in hand, bringing him closer and closer to the edge, smiling a bit against Sam’s ass as Sam’s moans grow louder. There was once a time where Dean considered his Led Zeppelin tape the most perfect music to ever exist, but he has known for quite a while now that that honor belongs entirely to the sounds Sam makes when he lets go like this.

            Suddenly there’s a loud crashing against the wall, and Dean is off of Sam and reaching for his gun before he realizes it’s coming from next door. Sam is halfway off the bed, movements forgivably slowed, considering how close to orgasm he was mere seconds before.

            “Keep it down!” comes from the next room, and the pounding ceases.

            Dean chuckles. “Damn, Sammy,” he says. “Guess someone’s a little jealous of what a good time you were having.”

            Sam huffs and falls back onto the bed, landing on his back. “Sorry, Dean.”

            Dean crawls on top of Sam. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “God, don’t ever be sorry for sounding like that. Fucking beautiful, Sammy.”

            Sam smiles shyly and rolls his hips up in blatant invitation. “We gonna finish this?” Sam asks.

            “Fuck yeah,” Dean says. He climbs off of Sam and grabs the lube. “Back on your hands and knees, baby.”

            Sam obliges Dean and turns back to the mirror. “You know,” Dean says as he slicks his fingers, “you make this really fucking beautiful face when I first push my dick inside you. Don’t think you’ve ever seen anything that pretty before, which is just a shame.”

            Sam pushes his hips back invitingly when Dean traces his spit-slick rim with one finger. “Buy a camera,” he says breathlessly. “Film it, we can watch it a million times if you want.”

            Dean pushes his finger in to the first knuckle and smirks. “Well. Where’d my shy husband go, the one who didn’t wanna watch himself in the mirror?”

            “Shut up, jerk,” Sam hisses as Dean thrusts that one finger in and out.

            Dean pushes in a second finger. “I’m not complaining, Sammy. ‘Bout time you realized how fucking nice you are to watch. And I’m gonna hold you to that, gonna buy us a video camera sometime soon.”

            “How about actually _fucking me_ sometime soon?” Sam asks in a voice that manages to be both scathing and breathless at the same time.

            Dean chuckles as he slides a third finger alongside the others. “Patience, Sammy,” he murmurs. He looks up at the mirror and watches Sam’s face as he brushes across his sweet spot, watching his mouth fall slack and his body shiver and Dean smiles. “Fucking beautiful,” Dean says.

            “Now,” Sam hisses. “In me, now, Dean, or I swear—“

            Dean squeezes Sam’s hip with his free hand. “I’m getting there,” he promises as he pulls his fingers free. He slicks his cock and lines up, pushes inside Sam and bottoms out in one smooth thrust, eyes rapt on Sam’s face in the mirror. “See?” Dean says. “Fucking beautiful face there.”

            Sam rocks back, and Dean wraps his hands around Sam’s hips to keep him still. “Patience,” Dean admonishes. “You are the most pushy bottom.”

            “You’re one to talk,” Sam shoots back, still trying to rock his hips. “Now, are you going to stop being a fucking tease?”

            Dean gives in, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. Sam moans and Dean releases his tight grip on Sam’s hips, letting Sam rock back into his thrusts.

            Throughout it all, he keeps his eyes glued on the mirror, watching Sam watch himself, watches Sam bite his lip to keep from disturbing the neighbors once more, watches Sam’s face scrunch up in pleasure as Dean nails his prostate again and again and again.

            “That’s it,” Dean murmurs. “So fucking beautiful, Sammy, see? So good for me, too, watching yourself like this. But you still haven’t seen one thing. Remember, told you, you have the prettiest face when you come for me. Want you to see it, want you to come for me, Sammy, baby, c’mon.”

            Sam moans and Dean looks away from the mirror for a second to watch in avid fascination as Sam’s fists bunch in the blankets, as his shoulder muscles tense and release, back arching with pleasure as Dean continues to thrust into him. He leans forward and presses soft, open-mouth kisses between Sam’s shoulders. “That’s it,” he says. “Come for me, Sammy.”

            Dean looks back at the mirror just in time to see Sam’s face go completely slack, mouth opened in a silent scream as he comes, strings of come covering the bedspread. “That’s it, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, thrusts growing more erratic, eyes closing in bliss, feeling Sam’s hole rhythmically clench around him during his orgasm. “Fuck,” he says brokenly, thrusting once, twice more before he too comes, spilling inside Sam with a shout muffled against Sam’s skin.

            They both collapse forward, Sam’s arms evidently no longer supporting his weight. Dean presses more kisses along Sam’s neck and shoulders, tiredly reaching one hand up to stroke his hair. “Good, Sammy?”

            Sam sighs under Dean’s ministrations. “Mhm.”

            Dean smiles against Sam’s shoulder-blade. “Were you serious about the video camera?”

            “You have a thing for watching yourself?”

            “Too busy watching you,” Dean says. “Now, were you serious?”

            Sam turns his head so Dean can see his smile. “Anything you want, Dean.”

            Dean nuzzles at Sam’s neck. “Gonna get you to watch yourself all the time. You make lotsa pretty faces I haven’t gotten to show you yet.”

            Sam grunts. “Yeah, and you call me kinky,” he mutters. “We gonna clean up, or we gonna stay like this all night?”

            “What’s wrong with this?” Dean asks.

            “Well, for one, I’m lying in the wet spot and I’m covered in sweat and come.”

            “Princess,” Dean teases, but he gently and carefully pulls out of Sam before going to the bathroom for a washcloth. He cleans them both off and helps maneuver a boneless and uncooperative Sam beneath the covers, then crawls in on the other side, resting his head against Sam’s chest. “Night, Sammy,” he murmurs.

            Sam kisses the top of Dean’s head. “Night, Dean.”

 

            “Remember the days where it took days for us to figure something like this out?” Dean asks as they hike through the woods, looking for the wendigo’s lair.

            Sam nods and snorts. “Yeah. Now, we get the newspaper reports, two or three phone calls, one reference book, a map of the area, and, boom, we’re all set.”

            Dean subtly adjusts his grip on his flare gun. “Yeah, well, let’s get this done before sundown. I’d like to make this fast and quick.”

            “You were the one who wanted to stop for breakfast,” Sam snipes. “We’re getting close. All the disappearances were around this area. It has to be in here somewhere. The entrance to the cave is somewhere within a hundred yards or so.”

            “There,” Dean says, pointing to a rock formation half-hidden behind an overlarge tree. “Let’s finish this. Maybe we can be at Ellie’s before dinner.”

            Dean doesn’t need to see Sam’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes, but he ignores it and they head for the cave entrance. “Know anything about the cave?” Dean asks as they draw closer.

            “Never saw anything on it,” Sam says. “I’m guessing that’s because anyone who tries to explore gets eaten. Gotta be pretty deep for a wendigo to make its lair here, though.”

            “Great,” Dean grumps. “Just what we need. No matter what, we stay together, right?”

            Sam reaches back to squeeze Dean’s hand for a moment before letting go. “Absolutely,” he agrees. “Now, quiet,” he cautions as they reach the entrance.

            It’s pitch black, their flashlights only cutting through a few feet of darkness, and Dean thinks of a term he once heard Sam say. _Cave darkness,_ the complete and seemingly total absence of light. He shivers, instinctively moving his light to shine on Sam, needing the reassurance that he is still there, in easy reach.

            It takes Dean a moment to realize what has happened, to realize why his entire body aches and the back of his head stings. “Son of a bitch…” he mutters, dazed.

            “Hey!” Sam shouts, and Dean thinks he should remind him to be quiet, that they’re hunting and stealth is important, but Sam keeps shouting and Dean can’t seem to get the words out. “Hey, you ugly son of a bitch! C’mon, don’t want him. ‘M bigger, c’mon, better meal.”

            Dean wants to laugh at the ludicrousness of that statement, wants to protest that he’s not _that_ much bigger, wants to ask what the hell is going on, but Sam won’t stop shouting.

            Dean focuses after that, realizes that he’s been knocked across the cavern by the wendigo, that they had clearly missed a side tunnel, and that Sam is trying to draw it off to give himself a better shot.

            Dean grits his teeth and rolls out from under the creature while it’s distracted by Sam’s shouting, getting himself out of the way as best he can, head throbbing and shoulder aching. “Sammy! Now!” he calls, and Sam doesn’t hesitate, shoots the wendigo. Dean closes his eyes against the bright light, trusts Sam to make sure everything is taken care of.

            He feels hands on his face. “Dean? Dean!” Sam shouts.

            Dean groans. “Not so loud.” He opens his eyes and sees Sam in the dim glow of the flashlight.

            Sam smiles. “Scared me there,” he says. “Gonna prop you up against the wall, okay? Keep your eyes open. Gonna make sure this ugly son of a bitch burns, then I’m gonna look around, see if anyone is still alive. Think you’ll be able to walk?”

            “Just a knock to the head, Sammy,” Dean assures him. “And my shoulder, think it’s dislocated. But yeah, I can walk.”

            Sam moves him and leaves him with one flashlight, going back to salt and burn the wendigo’s corpse. He comes back and carefully lifts Dean to his feet, slinging one of Dean’s arms around Sam’s shoulder for support. Dean keeps a flashlight in his good arm and sweeps it around, looking for side chambers or passages.

            They end up finding all three missing people in the very back of the cave. One needs the hospital badly, but the other two walk out just fine, supporting the third between them.

            Sam and Dean disappear at the edge of the forest, instructing the three survivors to call for an ambulance, reminding them that they plan on telling the police they got lost.

            Sam drives back to the motel, constantly eyeing Dean in the passenger’s seat. “How bad is it really?” he asks.

            Dean tries to shrug before he remembers that his shoulder is dislocated. “Need you to pop my shoulder back in,” he says, “and look at the knock on my head. I don’t think I have a concussion—not a serious one, anyways—but it’s bleeding, might need stitches.”

            Sam throws the jacket he stripped off once they got to the car over at Dean. “Put that behind your head,” he instructs. “Head wounds bleed a lot, and it’s easier to replace a jacket than listen to you bitch about blood on the seats.”

            The Impala has seen a lot of blood, and Dean has managed to clean it up every time before, but he takes the jacket. It’s getting ratty, anyways, and Sam could certainly use a new one, which Dean makes a mental note to get for him once they get home.

            Dean looks over at Sam, fingers tight on the wheel and winces, remembers all the times his brother had _starved_ himself because he’d felt guilty after Dean got hurt. “This isn’t your fault,” Dean says firmly.

            Sam’s eyes flick over, surprised. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I know. And I think—I think I’m okay, Dean, gonna be okay.”

            “You look upset,” Dean notes.

            Sam barks a humorous laugh. “My husband has a bleeding head wound and a dislocated shoulder. I’d like to get him fixed up and make sure he’s okay.”

            “Okay,” Dean says quietly. “Just—just remember, it’s not your fault. You have nothing to feel bad for.”

            Sam smiles softly. “I—I know. And I promise to tell you, if, you know, I can’t stop it. But I think I’m okay.”

            Dean, despite the pain, breaks into a wide smile.

            It takes nearly thirty minutes to get back to the motel, and Sam helps Dean back into the room, sitting him on the one rickety wooden chair, making him swallow some painkillers before starting anything. “Shoulder first,” Sam says. “Want me to count?”

            “Just do it,” Dean says, and Sam obeys, pops the joint back into place quickly and efficiently. Dean whimpers and Sam’s hands sooth along his aching back.

             “I know,” he says quietly. “Ready for me to do the stitches or want me to wait? You only need two or three, it’ll be quick,” Sam promises.

            Dean grits his teeth. “Now,” he says, and Sam obeys, sterilizing a needle and stitching Dean up with neat, proficient rows that would make the average medical student jealous.

            “Done,” he says quietly as he puts the medical kit away. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

            He leads Dean to the bathroom and helps him strip and sits him on the closed toilet. “Wish I could put you in a bath, but a shower’ll have to do,” he says as he starts the water, testing the temperature against his fingers. Once it’s warm, he gets in and extends his hand to Dean.

            Dean squeezes in, having no choice but to press up to Sam. “Cozy,” he snarks.

            Sam smiles. “You complaining?” he asks as he reaches for the shampoo.

            He washes gently, careful of Dean’s stitches, keeping soap off the wound. He washes his own hair much more mechanically and soaps up a washcloth, carefully cleaning every inch of Dean’s skin in long, soothing strokes. Once there is no more of Dean left to clean, he wipes the worst of the dirt off himself, then shuts the water and towels them both dry.

            Dean is half-hard, body awoken from Sam’s careful, delicate care. Sam chuckles. “Want me to take care of that?” he asks, already on his knees as he dries Dean’s legs, and his meaning is clear.

            Dean shakes his head. “Don’t want something quick,” Dean says. “Wanna feel you in me, Sammy.”

            Sam stands and pulls Dean close. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Want that too.”

            So they walk over to the bed and Dean climbs on and spreads his legs, inviting Sam to climb on and ravish him like he knows they both want, fully expecting to finish the night with several new mouth-shaped and finger-shaped bruises, sore in the best way. But instead, Sam trails one hesitant, feather-light hand across Deans’ clavicle.

            Dean reaches up and grabs Sam’s wrist. Sam’s eyes snap up. “Did that hurt?” he asks.

            Dean rolls his eyes. “Get on here and fuck me like you mean it,” he orders. “I’m fine. A little banged up, but fine. Now, are you going to fuck me, or should I take care of myself?”

            Sam growls and climbs onto the bed, kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, leaning forward and taking a nipple between his teeth, pinching lightly. Dean hisses and arches up into Sam’s mouth, and Sam releases his nipple and licks his way to Dean’s collarbone, where he sucks what will surely be a fantastic hickey. Dean hums happily. _This_ is what he wanted.

            Sam keeps moving his lips up Dean’s throat, across his jaw, taking Dean’s mouth in a bruising kiss that Dean happily returns.

            When Sam pulls away, Dean’s lips are tingling pleasantly, bruised and bitten and exactly how he likes them. Sam sets to work, grabs the lube off the counter and slicks his fingers, thrusting one inside almost immediately. It burns for a moment, but Dean’s hole relaxes, allowing the familiar and welcome intrusion.

            Dean chuckles. “Moving kind fast there, Sammy— _Fuck,_ ” he hisses as Sam’s finger finds his sweet spot.

            “Want me to buy you dinner first?” Sam snarks. “Thought you wanted me in you.”

            “I do,” Dean gasps as Sam begins to push a second finger alongside the first.

            “Then stop complaining,” Sam says. Dean doesn’t say anymore, just moans and gasps and whimpers Sam’s name as Sam fucks the two fingers, then a third, into him.

            Dean is rocking down onto those three fingers, biting his lip as a courtesy to their neighbors, when Sam finally pulls his fingers out. He slicks his cock and lines himself up before hesitating a second. “This good?” he asks. “Doesn’t hurt?”

            “For godssakes,” Dean groans. “In me, right fucking now.”

            Sam obliges, pushing into Dean and bottoming out. Dean moans, finally full of Sam like he wanted all night. He wraps his legs around Sam and reaches his good arm up to wrap around Sam’s shoulder, pulling him down into a kiss.

            Sam starts to thrust, adjusting until he’s getting Dean’s prostate on every stroke. He breaks the kiss and trails his lips back down to Dean’s throat, nipping and biting and sucking, leaving plenty of bruises Dean knows he won’t be able to hide tomorrow, getting a slight thrill at the thought of everyone seeing them and _knowing_ what he and Sam did the night before.

            “Mine,” Sam grunts after licking a bite mark. “Mine, fucking hell, and I almost _lost_ you—“

            Dean reaches up a shaky hand runs his fingers soothingly through Sam’s hair. “’M okay, Sammy, promise. Wasn’t that bad.”

            Sam doesn’t respond verbally but calms slightly, kissing at Dean’s pulse point. He picks up his pace, the delicious pressure of his cock hitting Dean’s prostate bringing Dean closer and closer but at the same time not enough. “Sammy…” he gasps, fingers tightening in Sam’s hair.

            Sam moans and bites at Dean’s neck again, making Dean whimper. “Sammy, please…” he begs.

            “Shh,” Sam says against his neck. “I got you. Got you, Dean,” he promises. Sam supports himself on his right hand and works his left hand between them, wrapping it around Dean’s cock, matching the pace of his thrusts.

            Dean moans, squeezes his eyes closed and shouts Sam’s name in warning, then he’s coming all over himself and Sam, shaking through the aftershocks. Sam follows quickly after, and Dean manages to give a satisfied smile as he feels Sam come inside him.

            Dean lets his legs fall away from Sam’s hips, sprawling on the bed bonelessly. Sam pulls out and rolls onto his side, looking at Dean with a fond smile. “Gonna have some nice bruises,” Sam rasps.

            Dean smiles lazily. “Good,” he says, reaching out one hand to lace his fingers with Sam.

            They stay like that for a moment before Sam sighs. “Should’ve known better then to get you cleaned up. You always just get dirty again,” he mutters, getting out of bed and going to the bathroom, coming back with a washcloth he uses to clean the both of them up. He throws it back into the bathroom and they hear it land with a thump. Sam crawls back into bed and maneuvers Dean so they’re spooning, Dean’s bad shoulder not pressed to the bed, the cut on his head carefully not touching anything.

            “You need rest,” Sam says quietly. “Get some sleep, and tomorrow we can head over to Ellie’s at get burgers and fries and pie and whatever else you want.”

            “’Kay, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. “And onion rings? You split some onion rings with me?”

            Sam chuckles. “Yeah, onion rings and fries and burgers and pie, sure. And then a ten mile run.”

            Dean gently elbows Sam in the gut, and Sam just laughs a little louder.

            “Sleep,” Sam says again. “Love you.”

            “Mmm, love you too, Sammy,” Dean says.

            Sam tilts his head so his lips are pressed to one of the blossoming bruises on Dean’s neck, kissing lightly, and they fall asleep like that.


End file.
